


Sic transit gloria mundi

by raxilia_running



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Missing Scene, Nonsense, Spoilers, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8234252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raxilia_running/pseuds/raxilia_running
Summary: Creak creak makes that sound again in his head.Creak creak and then a crack, distinct and clear in between the mess that are his thoughts: his imagination is playing the same dirty trick again and again, for the umpteenth time in two hours. Green fabric makes no sound when his Brother’s hands run through it and it’s just a mere hypothesis under the compelling sound of crevices that lacerate the once smooth walls of his intellect, leaving behind streams of black and void, through which he can witness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short: I've just played chapter two of "Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc" and it hurts. It hurts so much I obviously had to write down something about Ishimaru - my son, my sunshine - suffering for his Bro's death. Because of reasons. Because I like angst even if it hurts _a lot_.  
>  Pretty nonsensical, I know, but it's a stream of consciousness, more or less. Also my personal interpretation of how Ishimaru dealt with Chihiro's and Mondo's death.  
> Not good, sadly. *creis*  
> EDIT: I've almost forgot to THANK MY SPLENDID [WAIFU](http://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/profile)! Without her attentive proofreading this fic wouldn't have been so good. Thank you so much! *creis again*

_The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoes the impermanence of all things;_  
_the color of the sāla flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline._  
_The proud do not endure, they are like a dream on a spring night;_  
_the mighty fall at last, they are as dust before the wind._  
_**(Tales of Heike | Chapter 1.1)**_

 _Creak creak_ makes a sound in his head.

 _Creak creak_ like nails against the wall, scratching desperately to remove paint and plaster and concrete and find an opening.

 _Creak creak_ makes the crevice in his thoughts, a tiny sliver of black in the oh-so-absolutely white horizon in front of his eyes.

 _Squelch squelch_ is the sudden noise from under his foot, rubber grinding against linoleum in a high-pitched scream, and he’s back in the boys’ restroom, the floor’s under his shiny black boots, the heavy air of an indoor place fills his nostrils with impressions and memories that don’t match with the immanent reality of that room.

Blood leaves a metal imprint behind, a distinct stench he can’t figure how to trace, even if he’s been standing in that room for two hours straight, by now.

Cleaning was correctly executed, he has to admit it, as if nothing has happened at all. The carpet is clean, the walls are clean, the floor is clean. Everything is clean, except for his hands, his mind, _his soul_.

 _Creak creak_ makes that sound again in his head.

 _Creak creak_ and then a _crack_ , distinct and clear in between the mess that are his thoughts: his imagination is playing the same dirty trick again and again, for the umpteenth time in two hours. Green fabric makes no sound when his Brother’s hands run through it and it’s just a mere hypothesis under the compelling sound of crevices that lacerate the once smooth walls of his intellect, leaving behind streams of black and void, through which he _can witness_.

He is there, Brother is there, Fujisaki Chihiro-kun is there in his arms, so small, so defenseless, so white and red, like a blood-stained porcelain. Brother couldn’t have had a hard time lifting him from the ground, Brother was… Brother _is_ strong, his arms are powerful and can lift mountains, he couldn’t kill anyone for he knew his limits all too well.

It was all a misunderstanding – he thinks but does not dare to say out loud. It was all a misunderstanding, an incident, a cruel and fated coincidence. Brother was there to help, Brother was there to _care_ , while he squeezed Fujisaki-kun’s body against his chest, light for the absence of life and heavy with the blame that trickles down his forehead, mixed with blood and hair.

He should have resembled a porcelain doll – white, cute, _fragile_ , Brother was good but sometimes his strength was too much – and the contrast against Brother’s build should have looked quite… artistic. He has never understood art quite well but he is sure of it…

“But you have never understood anything, Brother” shouts a voice in between the creaks and the rumbling and the distorted noise of his sorrow. It’s not Oowada Mondo-kun voice, though, but a sharper, thinner, too merciless sound that digs in the walls and rips the crevices apart.

“You called him a _coward_ ” the voice insists, sensuous, cunning, harsh; guilt, like shackles gripping tight his ankles, puts him in place, for he has to witness _everything_ , he has to watch Brother’s lilac eyes widening in horror and dismay, looking at the tiny lump of refined clothes and dead limbs that once was Fujisaki-kun. He has to watch and not move, stretching a hand toward the too realistic evocation of Brother and his friend, who can’t see him.

And of what help could he have been, in any case?

“You lead him to the sauna, it was you who broke his e-Handbook” continues the voice, now asphyxiating as a rope around his neck, while he puts together every single piece of rubble that he can save from the fall and they form a path, paved of good intentions turned sour.

He’d known nothing, yet he’d talked a whole lot, he’d spat on his Brother’s honor without even thinking back for a single second. Words can be stones and he’d thrown quite a lot against him… and with such gusto…

“ _He picked that tracksuit because… it matched the one the culprit was wearing!_ ” screams the voice, and it’s laughing as it parrots his tone, putting in it the right amount of righteousness that fills every single one of his gestures.

He’d killed Brother, that’s where that unsteady path is leading him, he’d served him the shovel to dig his own grave and he hadn’t hesitated for one instant. And now Brother is there, in front of him, and he can’t help him because _he hasn’t been paying attention_.

Brother broke a promise and had to deal with the broken pieces all by himself, the rotting corpse of his guilt growing in his arms with the distinct smell of something metallic… yes, now he, too, can smell it. He can almost touch Fujisaki-kun’s body – he’s not dead, he’s just sleeping – and Brother’s shoulder. He can say…

“…” is the sound that his voice makes, when he opens up his mouth and only air flows out of his lips. They are the creaks that fill the silence, they are the creaks that flood his eardrums, they are the creaks that scream and scratch, while Brother moves and goes away, where he can’t follow him.

 _Clack_ makes the door when it closes and Brother is gone, Brother is alone, Brother _is dead_.

“It was my fault! I wasn’t strong enough!” he tries to shout but every sound is trapped against the inside of his skull and it hurts and it’s bad but not a tear is shed by his tired, reddened eyes.

Fighting is a survival instinct more than a categorical imperative, when he squeezes his fists and tightens his teeth, trying to face the inevitable collapse of every remaining speck of sanity inside of himself; trying to win over the _creak creak_ that is tearing apart the once solid and unshakable foundations of his mind.

“But I promise, I will become stronger! Next time…”.

“There won’t be a next time, you can’t fix death, Ishimaru Kiyotaka-kun, can you?!”.

It happens. Tactless hands appear between the open wounds of his sanity, long and cold fingers run through the crevices and sharp nails sink in the tender pulp of his heart, poisoning it with dread and regrets and resignation. They squeeze and twist, they shred it and leave nothing behind, nor flesh, nor blood, nor white, nor red, only the blank awareness that he can’t do anything.

“But you can try something different. Like killing a little more” says the voice and it’s suddenly low and tempting and it freezes him on spot, leaving him panting and panicking, his heart a fist that pounds against his ribs, trying to break them and ripping his chest apart in order to abandon the dirty and messy prison that has become his body.

“You almost did it, didn’t you? That vote against yourself… you tried to kill eleven of your classmates. You didn’t only fail, you even tried to fail some more!” chuckles the voice, it laughs and the path made of rubble collapse under his feet and he keeps on falling and falling and falling, until he hits the harsh, cold ground and he closes his eyes, hard, for a long time.

And finally he’s done. There’s no more white, no more crevices, no more _creak creak_ or _heh heh heh_ , there’s no more the unfamiliar yet well-known voice that plays with his mind and tickles the most obscure strings of his heart. There is only black and void and the bottom of a pit that has no openings.

He reaches the bottom of the pit and it goes “…” like his voice, that doesn’t resonate anymore; like his tears, that don’t flow along his cheeks anymore; like his mind, guilt-stained and sorrow-blank, black as a moonless and starless winter night.

He squeezes his fists no more, while the darkness that surrounds him creeps inside his chest and burns the remnants of his heart.

There are only creaks on the fallen surface of his will, the world itself has become nothing more than a formidable black crevice full of void and the only thought that was left in his restless mind.

He failed and he can’t make up for it.

Brother is no more.

Hope is no more.

 _Creak creak_ makes a sound in his head.

And then there is silence.


End file.
